Roger was sitting upright against the headboard, one leg bent, one arm resting on his knee. He wasn't in his Cantona jersey anymore. Just a plain white t-shirt. But he was fully awake.
Waiting.
His expression wasn't angry. Not exactly.
It was tired.
"You're back," he said quietly.
Jane turned slowly to face him. The light caught her face fully now. If he looked closely, he would see it—the slight puffiness around her eyes, the careful reapplication of mascara that hadn't quite masked the redness.
"Yes," she answered, setting her heels down on the dresser. "Traffic was bad."
Roger didn't respond to that.
He glanced at the clock on the wall.
"It's nearly midnight."
Jane swallowed, keeping her voice steady. "I needed some air."
Roger studied her for a long moment.
"You went back," he said.
It wasn't a question.
Jane didn't answer immediately.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.
"I just…" She inhaled softly. "I had something to take care of."
